Patricia Potter (58 page)

She told him about the day in grammar school Lisa had decided to be a musician. The only available school instrument was a cello, which she accepted happily. She determinedly and proudly lugged the thing home daily, although it was as big as she, until she discovered an abysmal lack of talent. With tears, she’d sadly returned it, and turned her enthusiasm to the piano, which met with equally unsatisfactory results.

“Unfortunately,” Meara concluded with a glint of the old amusement Chris remembered so well, “she has my deaf ear and none of Sanders’s talent. He had a beautiful voice.” Then she heard what she was saying and looked up to see the pain in his eyes, and she winced at her own slip. Yet over all these years, she had often come to think of Lisa as Sanders’s own child.

She bit her lip, another old habit Chris remembered. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I imagine Sanders was a wonderful father. I’ll always be grateful for that, to him and to you.”

“He was,” she said. “He and Lisa were so close. I was the disciplinarian, I’m afraid. She has so much determination, so much enthusiasm, I was afraid—”

Chris stopped her, and he couldn’t bear to hear the words, her self-blame for what had happened in the past. “She’s lovely, and bright, and now she’s finding her way.”

“I wanted so badly to protect her.” Meara’s voice was almost a cry of pure desperation.

“I know,” he said. Protect her against men like him.

Against men like him.
She could almost read his thought as she regarded him grimly. But Kurt Weimer wasn’t like him. No matter how much she had tried to hate Michael Fielding, she had never been able to forget his tenderness, his gentleness, his almost magical way with children. You couldn’t pretend those things.

After dinner, she made them a pot of coffee, Chris declining anything alcoholic. His very refusal was ominous.

“Do you really think he’ll try something?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m not taking any chances.”

She cleared and washed the dishes, and he dried them. He looked ridiculously out of place with a dish towel in his hands, very carefully wiping every corner with the same systematic efficiency he seemed to do everything.

It was nearly midnight when they finished. They had talked a long time over dinner, and now the tension was back. It had been there hovering all evening, magnifying as they accidentally touched several times while doing the dishes. Now it was alive and vibrant between them.

He leaned against a table in the kitchen, watching her with veiled, intense eyes so deep she wanted to crawl inside them. She went to him and put a hand on his arm. It was an invitation, and they both knew it, a bridge over the years and the pain.

Chris leaned down and kissed her, his lips gentle and searching and hesitant. They found response and, even more than that, acceptance, trust, and he felt hope, lost hope, seeding inside him.

His finger traced the contours of her face, worshiping each feature with such tender touches that love radiated poignantly between them, burning away bad memories and fanning the fine ones. Her arms went up, around his neck, drawing him close until his hand dropped from her face, and he grabbed her, holding her with a turbulent possessiveness. There was a quiet, fierce communion of need, of healing, of understanding, and he knew he had never loved her as much as he did this moment.

Now, perhaps, there was time. He had to believe that, and his heart pounded with the possibilities, with an optimism he’d never known. His fingers shook slightly as they moved along her back, and she looked up directly into his face, her eyes soft and trusting as he’d never thought they would be again.

He hurt. God, how he hurt inside. But it was a splendid, disbelieving kind of hurt. An aching of gladness, of happiness so strong that it strained against his heart, pounded against his ribs. His lips left her mouth and moved upward, caressing her cheeks, raining soft, tender kisses in sparkling trails across her face. He saw a dampness gather in her eyes and felt her trembling in his arms.

Chris felt an intense burning in his loins, and he knew he had to stop this before he could no longer control himself. He had made that mistake before. He wouldn’t do it again. Not now. Not until he knew she was safe. He moved back, his voice slightly unsteady.

“I think you’d better go to bed…”

“And you?” Her voice was shaky.

“In the living room,” he said, utilizing every bit of control he had. He knew he could share her bed tonight, and he wanted to, so goddamn much.

“I…need you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And God knows I want you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea tonight. When…this is finished…when we know it’s finished…then we’ll talk.”

“Talk?” she questioned with the impish grin he remembered and hadn’t seen in the past twelve days.

He grinned, feeling suddenly very young. “To begin with,” he corrected, his smile turning into a self-conscious, attempted leer which didn’t quite succeed but which was incredibly endearing, nonetheless. She was so unused to his uncertainty that it crawled right into her heart the few times he allowed it to show.

She reached up and touched the corner of his mouth, the lines of his face, the strong, uncompromising lines that seldom broke for a smile. He took her hand, holding it tight.

“If you don’t leave now, I won’t be responsible for what happens,” he said, his voice almost a groan.

She didn’t want to go. But she knew he was right. A few more minutes, and they would both be lost. A truck could drive into the house, and they wouldn’t know it.

“Good night,” she forced herself to say.

“Good night, Meara,” he replied slowly, his voice caressing her name in a way she remembered only too well.

Almost stumbling, she headed to the bedroom and changed into a nightgown. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep, not with him in the next room, she grabbed a book, a current historical novel, and tried desperately to read. Distracted, she found herself reading the same sentence over and over and over again. Finally with disgust, she turned out the light. It was nearly one o’clock, and there was all day tomorrow to explore her feelings. And his.

The thought was comforting. The thought of him in the same house was comforting. Her eyes finally closed.

Chapter Thirty-Two

K
URT MOVED SWIFTLY
but cautiously toward the house, his eyes always moving. Excitement coursed through him despite the weariness. The feeling resembled the thrill, the stimulation, that he’d discovered during the last days of the war. His blood had rushed then too. Danger. Killing. They had been like aphrodisiacs to him.

Even now he felt his manhood swell under the dark trousers he wore. He thought of Lisa. He would take her tonight, in front of her mother. Before he killed them. It was just retribution for Meara Evans’s killing of his father.

A hundred yards from the house, he stopped, swallowed, he knew, by the shadows of the night. There was only a piece of the moon tonight, and a few scattered lights from the residences, mostly porch lights or outside gas lights.

He took one last look around. He had already decided which window to try. Kurt had discarded the idea of trying the door because it faced the main road, and though the traffic was light, one could never predict whether an alert driver might notice something.

Kurt had previously watched Lisa go into one of the rooms, and so he suspected which was hers. He had also seen a light on in another room when he had brought Lisa home, and he discounted that one. He wanted the unused room, where the sound of his entry wouldn’t be heard.

He was about ready to step from the shadows when he saw a sudden brightness not far from where he stood. The flash of a match, and then the almost invisible glow of a cigarette. So the man with the threats hadn’t entirely believed him, just as he hadn’t believed his adversary.

Kurt took a knife from a sheath on his belt. He crept soundlessly toward the almost invisible figure standing in the shadow of a tree. From that position, the watcher could see both the front door and the windows in back. Kurt’s foot crunched on something, and the man started to turn, but he was too late. Kurt’s knife found the man’s throat, cutting it before he could utter a word.

Kurt pushed the body away, under the bushes, where the ground would soak up the blood. He moved quickly now toward one of the back windows. Most windows in the area were open to catch the night breeze, but this one was locked. Once more he cursed. That bastard who’d threatened him was probably responsible. Once more, Kurt wondered who in the hell he was.

The curtain was slightly open, and through the light of the open doorway he saw the room was empty. He would have to take a chance of breaking the window. It was multi-paned, and he would have to break only one small pane to reach the lock.

He wrapped the handle of his knife in a handkerchief and tapped it gently against the window. The window cracked and he pushed against one piece, hearing it fall inside with a soft tinkling sound. His gloved fingers quickly pulled out several more pieces of the glass until he reached the lock and quickly turned it. He then lifted the window easily and crawled inside.

The room was dark, and the house was completely still. He obviously hadn’t been heard. Not yet. His shoes had rubber soles and he had learned to move silently. He had thought about a mask and then discarded the idea. No one would be left alive to identify him.

There was a small light in the hallway, and he quickly found the door to the room he was seeking, the one he’d identified as Meara’s. He took a quick look in the other direction toward the living area. It was dark and quiet. His knife held tightly in his fist, he moved to the door and opened it, sliding inside toward the figure lying there.

Chris had been far more tired than he’d thought. He’d had little sleep in the past days, and it was catching up on him. Meara had offered him one of the bedrooms, but he decided to use the couch. Its very discomfort would keep him on the edge of sleep.

He had made sure his coat, with the pistol in it, was nearby, before he took off his shoes and lay down. But despite that nagging worry in the pit of his gut, he thought it unlikely Kurt Weimer would try anything tonight, particularly here. He had wondered briefly if part of his concern wasn’t simply a need, an excuse, to be close to Meara again. Weimer was, according to Matt, back in Bonn. There was a detective outside, one trained in protection.

He thought about the evening, and how much he had enjoyed it, enjoyed the homey task of wiping dishes, of sitting with her, of listening to the stories of Lisa, of hearing that lilt in her voice as she told them. They had been pearls of moments, each so rich in texture and beauty.

Perhaps they needn’t end. She had responded to him tonight with a trust he’d never thought he could have again. And if he hadn’t been feeling noble…

Maybe there were second chances. He allowed himself the momentary pleasure of thinking about it, of how it might be to live with Meara, to become a friend if not father to Lisa, and his heart worked madly and irrationally. Then he reminded himself that it was danger, deadly danger, that had brought them back together and created an artificial situation which cast him in the role of protector. Once the danger was gone, her doubts would return, her distrust. How could it be otherwise?

Don’t expect anything? It doesn’t hurt as much if you don’t expect anything, he told himself. But it did. It would.

Exhausted and troubled, he finally drifted off into a deeper sleep than he had expected or intended. He didn’t know what woke him, but after several seconds he forced his mind to function again. He heard the soft sound of a door opening and almost felt eyes on him. But his body, he knew, was hidden from the doorway by the back of the sofa. He didn’t move. His gun was nearby, but to reach for it would risk being seen, and he didn’t know if the intruder had a gun already primed for use.

Where was the damned guard?

A second passed, then another, and he heard a creak down the hall. He moved swiftly, one hand reaching for the gun and then his feet hitting the floor. He headed for the bedroom, his heart pounding so loud he was afraid Weimer would hear it. That the intruder was Weimer, he had no doubt.

All three bedroom doors were closed, but he heard a startled gasp from one and moved toward it, hesitating outside. He was afraid to bust in, to startle Weimer into something precipitous. The man had obviously decided revenge was more important than anything else. Chris cursed himself. He should have known. He should have done more.

A piece of him died as he realized Meara was facing the son just as she had the father twenty years ago. The one comfort he had was that she had handled it well then. He could only hope she would do the same now.

He strained to hear, but Kurt was speaking in a low voice. He caught the word “daughter” and a soft, menacing laughter, and hate, raw, livid red hate enveloped him. Meara would be terrified, wondering what had happened to him. Damn those moments of sleep. He heard some scuffling, a slight cry, and then a muffled noise. Then there was a bark, a thud and a slight whimper.

He heard a slight moan and the sound came close to the door. Damn the carpets on the floor. He stepped back in the shadows as the door swung open and Meara was thrust awkwardly out the door, a gag in her mouth and her hands tied in front of her. Her eyes, visible in the small night-light, were terrified as they glanced desperately around until they caught his. Suddenly she lurched forward, twisting and falling away from her captor, who was not yet far enough out the door to see Chris. With a muttered curse, he leaned over to grab Meara, a knife bright in his hand, his attention fully on Meara so he didn’t see the lightning fast movement of the man to his left.